


The Riddle Of Light

by Lokisgame



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Episode: s02e08 One Breath, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 11:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokisgame/pseuds/Lokisgame
Summary: She told him to use his key.





	The Riddle Of Light

She told him to use his key.  
"Scully?" He said softly, stepping into the darkness of her living room. The smell of bleach was replaced by scent of new carpet.  
"I'm here."   
Judging by ear and shadows, Mulder rounded the couch and sat beside her, finding his way by touch, carful not to sit on a foot or a hand.   
"Why is it so dark in here?" He asked, waiting for his eyes to adjust.   
Blankets rustled against upholstery, the cushions dipped and her side was pushed against his. A bundle of soft fabrics, smelling of shampoo and body lotion; all vulnerable, all human, all precious, all new.   
"It helps," she sighed, leaning on him.   
"Where's your mom."   
"I sent her home," Scully said, and as his vision cleared, he noticed her worry the edge of her sleeve. "I couldn't stand the hovering."   
Although he had questions, about the present, the future and past, the frayed sleeve of her worn-out hoodie stopped him from asking any.  
"Not the best idea," she admitted after a second of silence.   
"You sure you don't want the lights on?"   
"Too bright."   
She shook her head and sniffed. Mulder grabbed the tissues from the coffee table then, almost on reflex, felt her forehead; cool enough, she probably took something earlier. With her immune system decimated, she picked up infection after infection. "You want some tea? Water?"   
He caught himself pulling the blankets closer around her. Right, hovering, she didn't like that.   
"No, you want some?" Scully asked, stoping his retreating hands.   
"I'd like some, yes." He said, feeling the need for something concrete, a purpose. Everything she did so far, made him feel out of his depth.   
"Then I'd like some too."   
"Okay, I'll make us some tea."   
She caught his wrist as he moved away. "Can you keep the lights off?"  
"But."   
"Please?"   
"Okay, but I can't promise I won't break anything."   
"I trust you." Her attempt at humour, almost broke him.   
Water sloshed in the kettle, match blinded him for a second, but Scully's kitchen was well organised, he had no trouble remembering where she kept tea and mugs. The stove hissed, flame casting a faint blue light against white enamel. Her feet were almost silent.  
"Darkness helps," she said, climbing to sit on the table.  
Mulder turned and saw her still bundled n blanket, feet resting on the seat of a chair she ignored. "I can't remember what happened, but it feels safer somehow. Why is that?"   
"I don't know," he said softly.   
Her voice wasn't breaking, but he knew it wasn't her old self who was asking. "Why do I cringe every time I hear a drill starting? Why do lights in my own bathroom feel blinding?"  
With each word, she sagged deeper, pulling the blankets closer, as if trying to hold herself together and Mulder's heart broke with every new question he couldn't answer, so he did the only thing he could do. Crossing the five feet of floor between them, he put his arms around her, holding her tight to his chest.   
"Mulder, what happened to me?" She mumbled, fingers closing on the fabric of his sweatshirt, control slipping.   
"I don't know." He whispered helplessly, stroking her back, rocking her gently.   
For once in his life, he wasn't an investigator, advocating for victims of abductions and experiments conducted against their will. He didn't feel like uncovering the truth about aliens or conspiracies or corruption on the highest levels of government and military. He just wanted his friend to feel safe.  
As long as she allowed it, he did his best to hold her together. Not asking her any questions, she could not answer, nor offering any answers, he could not back up with tangible evidence. Three months of their lives were stolen, never to be recovered.   
"I want my life back, I need to work." Scully said firmly, if barely above whisper, and pulled back, just enough to see his face.   
Hands framed his cheeks, thumbs brushing away something he failed to notice. Tears.   
"And how are you feeling?" She asked, and her tone made him choke on a laugh that wasn't quite a sob, but felt close.   
"I'm fine," he sighed, drawing her back in, resting his forehead against hers, sharing her breath, warm on his lips. "Don't worry about me."   
The kettle whistled, softly at first, pitch rising, breaking them up, slowly but inevitably.  
Her hands slipped away as he turned to fill the mugs. Stirring a spoonful of honey in hers, lemon juice in both, the spoon clinking twice. Table creaked, a hand touched his back.   
Scully took her mug and his hand, pulling him back to the couch. Together they didn't fear the dark.


End file.
